


A gaze across the field - part 1

by FedonCiadale



Series: A gaze across the field [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle of the Bastards, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24231820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FedonCiadale/pseuds/FedonCiadale
Summary: Sansa's thoughts as she contemplates the possible outcome of the battle.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: A gaze across the field [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749040
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27
Collections: Jon x Sansa Drabble





	A gaze across the field - part 1

“I am not going back there alive, do you hear me?”

Her own voice rang in her ears. He looked so hurt, so concerned, that she could not bear it any longer. She spun on her heels and left the tent. Nothing she said had swayed Jon. _Stupid, heroic, stubborn Jon._ One should think that having been stabbed to death by men who were supposed to be his brothers, he would have a better understanding of how the world was, of how politics went, how wars were won.

But, no, he still thought that they had a chance of getting Rickon back, he still thought that they should win, because right was on their side. He still thought that Ramsay could be duped into a trap. That they could win even though they had fewer men. Sansa was so angry at him.

She had played her last card, reminded him of his duty to her, reminded him of what she had suffered. If he insisted to fight, he should at least know what was at stake. If he failed, he should know the price.

Dark thoughts got hold of her. Thoughts of Jon dying on the battlefield, in despair, because he knew that his failure meant her death. She shuddered. She had not lied. She had long learned that the truth could be wielded as effectively as a lie. The truth would make him try his best, fight until his last breath.

Back in her own tent she took up her sewing kit. She would not sleep, not tonight. She had not heard from Littlefinger, although she had made many promises, promises she hoped she could wriggle out of once Winterfell was theirs. She violently stabbed her needle in the cloth on her lap. It was a symbol of the hope she had not yet lost. A Stark banner that could hang from the battlements once the accursed Boltons were gone. Her needle went straight through her finger and she cursed, sticking her finger in her mouth but not before droplets of blood had sprayed on the cloth, right where the direwolf’s mouth was.

She must have dozed off after all, because it was dawn when she looked up again. A servant stood at the entrance of her tent, a rider. He held a small piece of paper in his hands.

Sansa jumped from her seat, took the paper, and read what was written there.

_‘Come and meet me, sweetling.’_

She let the piece of paper fall to the ground. “Are you to bring me to him?”

The rider just nodded.

“Did he bring an army?” The rider stayed silent. Littlefinger would not discard a winning hand.

She could stay here, let Jon fight this battle, she had not wanted, not at this time, let Littlefinger smolder. He might have brought an army though, not just the promise of one. His army might be enough to swing the scales, enough to save the brother she had pushed to fight.


End file.
